


MY Rebecca, By Mrs. Danvers

by Pandora_sama



Category: Rebecca - Daphne du Maurier
Genre: Drama, F/F, F/M, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:27:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandora_sama/pseuds/Pandora_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This fan fiction is based on the novel, Rebecca (1938), by Daphne Du Maurier, and the film of the same title (1940) directed by Alfred Hitchcock. The novel was apparently THE most popular Gothic romantic thriller novel for women of the 1930’s. I don’t think it has ever gone out of print. The film Rebecca won two Oscars for Best Picture and Cinematography (black and white) and received 9 other nominations. All the lead actors were nominated, Sir Lawrence Olivier, for Best Actor (Maxim de Winter), Joan Fontaine, for Best Actress (2nd Mrs. de Winter) and Dame Judith Anderson, for Best Supporting Actress (Mrs. Danvers).</p><p>Mrs. Danvers, the narrator of this tale who is sharing her memories, is decidedly NOT the heroine of the tale. The heroine of this tale has no name and never had a name. The only name she has is the one bestowed upon her when she became married to the rich widower and owner of the mansion Manderley. So she is known only as the second Mrs. de Winter.  Mrs. Danvers will here tell you her story, and explain how she feels about the events that happened after she lost the one, the only, Rebecca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

INTRODUCTION:

Mrs. Danvers, the narrator of this tale who is sharing her memories, is decidedly NOT the heroine of the tale. The heroine of this tale has no name and never had a name. The only name she has is the one bestowed upon her when she became married to the rich widower and owner of the mansion Manderley. So she is known only as the second Mrs. de Winter. 

(NOTE: Names, and their psychological significance, are VERY important in the novel. The second Mrs. de Winter has no first name, neither does Mrs. Danvers. There must have been a Mr. Danvers at some point, but what do we know of him? Nothing at all. Did Mrs. Danvers ever care about him AT ALL? Does she even miss him? Also, we never do learn what Rebecca’s maiden name was, or what the second Mrs. de Winter's maiden name was. Their surnames are only bestowed as a gift of marriage, possession of the husband they shared. Mr. de Winter has a first name, but which is it? Is it Max, what Rebecca and her friends and followers casually called him? Or is it Maxim, what his family and those who really loved and understood him, called him, and what he preferred to be called?)

Mrs. Danvers does not call the new young bride “Mrs. de Winter.” She will NEVER call her that. She will defer to her as “Madam” and that’s it. Mrs. Danvers knows her place. She is the housekeeper of Manderley and she must serve its owners and residents with proper courtesy. But ever so close below the surface, seethes a rage she can barely contain. There is only one Mrs. de Winter for her and that is, and was, her beloved Rebecca. Only SHE was worthy to run Manderley. The hereditary owner of Manderley, Mr. Maxim de Winter, did NOT run Manderley in the style worthy to such a magnificent property, in Mrs. Danvers’ opinion. He was a solitary reclusive man at the best of times, who was uncomfortable around other people, and certainly not the social butterfly and elegant perfectionistic hostess that Mrs. Danvers’ beloved Rebecca was.

So Mrs. Danvers views the arrival of the shy, gauche, unsuitable young new Mrs. de Winter with distaste, and ultimately, with contempt. Mrs. Danvers’ sufferings are immense. She is still deeply grieving the loss of Rebecca, the one person she was closest to in the world. She raised and cared for Rebecca as a young girl as her personal maid, watched her grow up into a confident, radiant beauty, and then watched Rebecca leave her company to go out in the world, and share her generous favours with both men and women. Rebecca left Mrs. Danvers behind in the excitement of becoming the erotic magnet to so many, out in the beau monde.

But at night, she always came home to Mrs. Danvers. She shared her tales of triumphs and conquests of lovers past and present gleefully, maliciously, while Mrs. Danvers combed her beautiful hair 100 strokes every night before tucking her into bed. Every night, Mrs. Danvers listened with rapt attention to EVERYTHING Rebecca said, and thought, and felt, and together, they laughed and laughed till they cried, at all the foolish men and women who each thought they were the only important one in alluring Rebecca’s life. Mrs. Danvers also lovingly cared for Rebecca’s treasured personal and most intimate and luxurious possessions, the rich soft fur coats, the many beautiful evening gowns, even the lingerie made for her by the nuns in the convent of St. Clare, and the negligees so fine, you could see RIGHT THROUGH THEM.

So imagine Mrs. Danvers’ total disgust, when this clumsy socially inept, ridiculously young and unsophisticated working class girl marries wealthy Max de Winter and tries to take the place of HER Rebecca. Mrs. Danvers will here tell you her story, and explain how she feels about the events that happened after she lost the one, the only, Rebecca.  
~~~~****~~~~

Chapter 1:

I would rather not discuss where I am right now. It is not necessary at this point for you to know this, in any case. All you need to know is, I have done NOTHING WRONG. I have done what I thought was right and fair. I have done right by my beloved. Who is my beloved? She is, or rather was, the late Mrs. Rebecca de Winter of Manderley. She was the talk and the envy of the county, I am SURE you have heard of her! Her parties, her balls, her hunts in the country, were legendary. She had SO many friends, both men and women, in and around Manderley and in London, too. My Rebecca wouldn’t have just stayed in the country. Oh no, she liked to be right in the centre of things, in downtown London, in the fashionable West End. Where else would she be? Nothing but the best for my Rebecca.

I have known her since she was a headstrong young girl, when I became her personal maid. She didn’t call me “Danny” then, because that was prior to my marriage. I hardly think it is your business what my name was then. And I hardly think it is your business how I came to meet Mr. Danvers. He is gone now, in any case. Long gone. Poor man. I can’t say I miss him, it was a marriage of convenience in any case. It suited me to advance my status by becoming a married woman. Personal maids who are unmarried seldom advance to the most important job for a woman in service that there is, the housekeeper of a great home. I wanted that. I DESERVED that! And I got it. I always get what I want, sooner or later.

When Rebecca finally settled on the man SHE had chosen for marriage, I as a matter of course came with her when she became mistress of Manderley. I had shown myself worthy of promotion by attaining the dignity of becoming a married woman. And by that point I was widowed, and it is quite traditional for a housekeeper to be widowed, unless her husband is hired on too, as a butler or a chauffeur or in some such position. That would have added complications, trying to make sure a husband would be provided with a position as well. I didn’t need complications. So it suited me well, that by the time my Rebecca became a bride, I was a widow, Mrs. Danvers.

So what did I think of my new master, you may ask? Well, at the time, I wasn’t particularly impressed by Mr. Maximilian de Winter. There he was, with a showplace of a mansion in the country, and all he did with his time was sit around home and smoke and wander down into the gardens from time to time. He managed the estates his family owned with his estate agent, Frank Crawley, and that was about it. He is perhaps, the most boring man I have ever met. What a poor companion for my lively, accomplished Rebecca!

His family called him Maxim, but my Rebecca soon gave him what she considered to be a less “stuffy” sounding nickname, “Max.” His family, which consists of a sister and her husband, are both utter imbeciles. They sit around and talk about the same things over and over. They are NOT in the best circles, despite their relative wealth. Not at all like my Rebecca.

My Rebecca did keep in touch with someone from the old days. Her favourite cousin, Jack Favell. No, I did NOT approve of their relationship, nor of Mr. Favell. But one cannot choose one’s family, I suppose. And my Rebecca was a young beautiful woman, whose list of admirers could line up from her home in Manderley to the centre of London. She had the right to associate with whomever she chose. But I did NOT like Mr. Favell, not at all. He took liberties. He spoke disrespectfully and casually to me. He kept hinting that he knew...something, something distasteful, about me. And hinted that I would be wise to cultivate his acquaintance, and certainly to tolerate his almost constant presence around my Rebecca. The young scoundrel.  
~~~~****~~~~


	2. My life as the housekeeper of a great estate, Manderley

Chapter 2

I treasured my newfound status of housekeeper to the great estate of Manderley. Of course I did. But I will swear to you all, I would have done it for nothing, just to be with my Rebecca. Through her eyes, through her lilting laughter, I attended all the parties, the hunts, the balls, her travels to London, the guests she received at her flat there, even the casual weekends at her private little cottage with Jack Favell. Though I deep down inside, wished she had NOT told me quite so much about this dalliance of hers with Jack Favell. Somehow this liaison was less casual than all the others. He was both lover and family to her, in no particular order. The favourite cousin. The favourite cousin who presumed to call me “Danny,” which was Rebecca’s name for me, and hers alone. The cheek of him, to think that he could speak to me in the same way that my Rebecca did! 

But Jack Favell was like a mangy wet dog, coming in all the time without invitation, tracking his mud all over the carpet. I was after all, in charge of maintaining the household to the high standard to which Mr. de Winter and my dear Rebecca had become accustomed. Perhaps the vile man presumed it was my job to clean up his mud, not simply to overlook it? Always hovering around like an unwanted but insistent dog. Always sniffing about me, insinuating, hinting. Bringing up the past, a past I preferred to keep in the past.

“Well, Danny,” he would say with feigned heartiness. “You must be such a lonely woman these days, no man to see to your needs, eh? You must miss Mr. Danvers sometimes, I dare say. What a pity that man had such a poor constitution. So many gastric upsets, so soon after you were married, what? He was even losing a lot of hair with all the stress of that, it seems. And then that last one, with him vomiting and vomiting. And then he died, in great pain. That must have been so DREADFUL for you, Danny.”

Damn the man! He thinks I want to remember THAT? And does he really think that *I* need ANY man? Curse his impertinence! Curse his insinuations! And curse him that because I am a servant and not a noble lady of his class, I must endure him without murmur, and not tell him to go to the Devil!

“What a shame they never found out what was wrong with Mr. Danvers,” Favell would continue, still smiling like a dog looking for treats. “What a shame there never was any autopsy, I’m sure it would have been a relief to you to know what actually happened to the poor man. I often think of Mr. Danvers with great fondness. Don’t you?” and here he would study my face carefully, waiting for me to react.

But I wouldn’t give him the damned satisfaction of even looking back at him. I know how to compose my face to stillness. I know how to make my face devoid of all expression. Mr. Jack Favell does not know with whom he toys. He will live to regret his damned infernal impertinence to me! But I will not let on that his barbs have found their mark. I shall be perfectly polite, perfectly professional, perfectly aloof to his barbs. I can do this with everyone. My mask of composure is flawless, flawless. There is only one with whom I let go of the mask, and feel, and revel in the feeling. You know who that one is, and will always be. My Rebecca.  
~~~~****~~~~


	3. A Terrible Time

This time is very hard for me to write about. I realize you would like to know how I feel about all of this. But I lost her, my Beloved. It seemed at the time we all had lost her to the sea. She was out on the sea, sailing her little boat, throwing caution to the wind, no doubt laughing at the storm, all alone, but as always, unafraid. Did anyone or anything ever frighten my Rebecca? Impossible, quite impossible.

Such a force of nature was she, my Rebecca.The world revolved around her and what she was doing, who she was seeing. When she left, you could feel the vacant cold air, still hear her light footsteps through the corridors of Manderley, and everywhere, my Rebecca was missed.

The blood red rhododendrons she had planted still grew and thrived under the morning room window, bordering the drive on the grounds of Manderley. The naked faun fountain, that my Rebecca had chosen as the centrepiece for the rhododendron planting, still played his pan pipes in the bright sunlight. All the routines she had established for the staff went on as before. I saw to it that they did. I kept her room just as she had expected it to be kept. Her evening gowns, her furs, her delicate underclothes; all these things I kept for her, and who better to do that, than her Danny? And still, from her room in the West Wing, you could hear the restless sound of the sea. The sea that had claimed her for its own.

But there were no more balls at Manderley. No longer did the house phone buzz with instructions for Danny. No longer did I walk by and hear Rebecca's excited chatter and laughter on the phone to her many friends. No one summoned, as Robert would have been, to take the day's correspondence and invitations down to the post. Manderley had been transformed from a place of bustling activity into a terrible terrible silence.

I could only hear my own voice in the silence, no answering lilt of laughter from my Rebeccca. She above all others, had wanted and needed me. I was still important, still housekeeper of a great historic home. But delude myself as I might, only to my Rebecca was I irreplaceable.


	4. Mr. Maximilian de Winter

Mr. Maximilian Bloody de Winter! Pacing back and forth and smoking like a chimney, restless and miserable as a dog without its master, completely lost without she, around whom Manderley revolved: my Rebecca. Oh, I knew that he, like every other man, was in part afraid of HER. Women admired and envied my Rebecca's utter mastery of style and grace, her tall commanding way of striding in riding boots, crop in hand, to and from her horse as though born on a horse. Yet she was completely a lady in a ballroom gown or furs, whether going to dinner or a county ball. Men were in awe of her, half filled with desire and half terrified. I saw it in their eyes. Worms, all of them. For my Rebecca was in thrall to no one and nothing. Had I HER beauty as well as brains, what a swath I might have cut through the world! My Rebecca left her mark on every heart. No one was immune. Least of all, I. I who have been granted brains, but no beauty. No beauty, ever. That beast Giles, excuse me, MAJOR Giles Lacy. I overheard him say on more than one occasion I was no oil painting! But I could look at my Rebecca, brush her hair 100 strokes while she shared with me her triumphs, her conquests of the day and I could then drink my fill of beauty. Like a pirate queen, she sailed the world and always came back laden with bounty. Sometimes it was something small that was worth a great deal, like the porcelain figurine she convinced her "Max" to purchase. Sometimes it was something she valued, but I did not: her ability to make Jack Favell come and go at her beck and call, to share things with HIM that she would not share with me. Blast the man and his machinations!

I admit I did not understand Mr. de Winter very well and I suspect few people did. He was a brooding, mostly silent man, solitary, letting no one into his real thoughts and feelings. In the months after we lost my Rebecca, I watched that scared rabbit of a man Frank Crawley fuss over his partner Maxim like a broody hen, worried he was shutting himself away from the world too much. I believe it was Frank's moronic idea to send Mr. de Winter away, back to Monte Carlo where he and my Rebecca had first met and spent their honeymoon, thinking that the busy social life of Mr. de Winter's own wealthy set might distract him from the deep depression into which he had sunk. Get away from the rotten damp English winter, Crawley probably told him. Go to France, Italy, Greece! And don't come back until spring is blooming at Manderley. Leave minding the estates to me. But he didn't need to go away! He needed to talk, to talk about Rebecca. I would have talked of Rebecca, had anyone asked me. I would have talked of her even with the wretched unimaginative Maximilian de Winter.

So off went Mr. de Winter to the south of France. Since he wasn't much of a gambler, what he did in Monte, I cannot pretend to know or care. Probably drove at speed down the mountainside. With any luck, he might break his neck and I might be spared the further company of such an ungrateful master. Yes, I say ungrateful. He had a beautiful home and everything money could buy. But he had no appreciation of how fortunate he was or what to do with his wealth. He was dull, he was unimaginative, he couldn't string two words together of witty conversation, something that was my Rebecca's forte. He disliked dealing with servants (did he think we were lower class and not fit to be conversed with?) and asked me to handle all domestic matters of his household. He was a wretched host for special occasions including Christmas, because he had no idea how to celebrate anything or how to choose gifts. He would stuff a few pounds in my hand on Christmas Eve and say buy myself whatever I liked and would I please choose some suitable gifts for the rest of the staff. Then, reddening, he would turn away. Not so much as a Happy Christmas out of him. On the other hand, without my Rebecca, how could there ever be a Happy Christmas again?


	5. My Rebecca And Me

I don't wish to talk about the present any more. In the present I am alone. I care for no one and no one cares for me. Let me instead remember a beautiful dark haired young girl. 

An only child, lanky, but later tall and graceful, she could ride a pony almost before she could walk, the apple of her fond mother and father's eye. Wore fancy clothes with lace and ruffles for when company came, and never complained or dirtied her clothes like so many girls her age. How do I know? Why, I helped dress her and gave her tips on how to behave. I was the upstairs maid at that time, but soon had the job of getting Rebecca ready to visit with her mother or father or to go out with her young friends.

"Smile for the gentleman, Rebecca," her mother would admonish her. "And sit on his knee if he asks you to. Be charming. Ask him about himself." Rebecca seemed to figure out quite early what was expected of her, without her mother giving further guidance. With the ladies, Rebecca was unfailingly polite and curtsied when she was introduced to them. She would ask many questions about the ladies' clothing and jewellery and about the decorations in their home when she visited. When she got to know a lady in her mother's set, she would beg and plead to hold and examine various precious objects, looking soulfully with puppy dog eyes when the object was put back in its place. Perhaps it is surprising how often such precious objects got gifted to Rebecca. Or maybe not so surprising. Even as a child, my Rebecca was heart-stoppingly beautiful. The ladies liked to see her glow with pleasure at their not so little gifts to her, and enjoyed her curious and increasingly knowledgeable prattle about current fashion and fads.

Her father liked to take her with him when he went to the local pub. it wasn't a place for children, but the pub owner knew him well and he was a good customer. So she learned to simper and banter for the gentlemen who frequented the pub each day. Later on her father took her when he went shooting pheasants; since he had no son, Rebecca would have to do.

With children her own age, Rebecca was quite naturally the bossy leader. Let's play Society Ladies, she would say, and she would play dress up with her friends. I was carefully instructing her by that time on the proper behaviour to adopt when out in fine society. She listened to me, but I soon realized she could play the game more adeptly than I had ever managed. Never was there such a girl for wheedling her way with people! It wasn't long before she was frowning and correcting me on the finer points of etiquette: generally, what one could and could not, get away with.

Oh yes, there was a groom who began to insinuate his attentions on me, in between caring for the horses and seeing that Rebecca was properly mounted on the pony she had chosen that day. That was Mr. Danvers. He bored me exceedingly with his weak attempts at making conversation. I would take Rebecca to go out riding and there would be Mr. Danvers. I tried to control my face into stillness, and not to roll my eyes. Mr. Danvers' interest in me could be useful, I reminded myself. What did he look like? Who, Mr. Danvers? Oh, must I? It is a long time ago now. I buried Mr. Danvers such a long time ago now. I would much rather talk of my Rebecca.

It wasn't long before a callow youth, young Frankie Favell, Rebecca's cousin and therefore, her only social equal in the eyes of her parents, began to tag along on Rebecca's daily rides. He brusquely pushed Mr. Danvers aside when he attempted to mount Rebecca on her pony and said, "I'll mount Miss Rebecca. Be about your business, Danvers." 12 years old and already acting like he owned the world, that was Frankie Favell.

Mr. Danvers didn't seem to mind the rude boy's actions. He was too busy trying to talk to me, trying to find out what interested me. Not YOU, Mr. Danvers! But the words were never spoken aloud. So many words I never speak aloud, to anyone. I swear all my unspoken words, all my pent up feelings, could sometimes verily singe the air.

As Miss Rebecca became a young woman, she spent less and less time with what had become her own maid, and more and more time with her friends. She never quite deserted Frankie, the obedient dog at her heels, but more and more, she sought a better, wealthier class of people to cultivate. By the time her gay group of gallivanting friends had swept her off to the Continent to play, Mr. Danvers had made me a proposal which I was carefully considering while putting out the rat poison in the barn.

Yes, I accepted his proposal, after most careful consideration. We moved in together in a room on Rebecca's parents' estate. I was bored out of my mind. I endured his attentions after imbibing a great deal of good wine. Silly ass seemed to get a good deal of satisfaction over my cooking for him, something it was not my place to do, previous to our marriage.

Miss Rebecca with Frankie tagging along, arrived back home from the Continent shortly after I was obliged to move in with Mr. Danvers. "Married, are we?" she smirked. "You, of all people, married! And to Mr. Danvers, the groom!" Her contempt was evident in the twist of her lip. "I must call you Mrs. Danvers now, I suppose. So must you go to take in lunch to him now and leave ME when *I* need you right now? I am having the greatest difficulty picturing YOU as a Domestic Goddess! Well, go then if you must....DANNY!" Then she roared with laughter.

I coloured deeply. I did not like this new nickname, Danny, that young Rebecca had bestowed upon me. But she was my mistress, so she might address me as she wished. I was in a foul mood though as I approached the kitchen and the nauseatingly cheerful Mr. Danvers. I decided it might be as well to spice up Mr. Danvers' soup for him. How was it that at one point my hand inadvertently went right past the jar of curry and grabbed the box of rat poison? Not like me. I am NEVER careless. I must have been VERY rattled at my Rebecca's laughing at me, mustn't I?


End file.
